


Execution

by Pastel_Teacups



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, TW: Execution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Teacups/pseuds/Pastel_Teacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is captured by Inspector Javert. The penalty for treason is death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Execution

**Author's Note:**

> Before you read this, if any execution or hanging can trigger you in any way, please don't read this fic! There's a very small description of a hanging within the fic. Again, please read the TW tags!!!

It was six in the evening when Enjolras received the first text. Grantaire was surely on his way home from his studio by now, wasn’t he? 

Enjolras had been cooking dinner easily, glad that his boyfriend would be home soon. It was their first night without an Amis meeting to interrupt them in a while, and both were eager to have a somewhat ordinary dinner. 

He picked up his phone and read over the text, his brow furrowing. 

_E, I think there’s a man following me._

Enjolras felt his heart sink, and he typed out a reply after a brief moment of shock. 

_What? R, what are you talking about?_

It was a few minutes before he got a reply. He sat on the sofa with his phone anxiously the whole time. 

_He’s a police man. In uniform. I think he knows me._

Enjolras scrambled to get out a reply mere seconds after he received the terrifying message. 

_No. That’s impossible._

Another pause, and the blonde grew restless. He began to pace, holding his phone tightly in his hand. 

_I’ve just taken three turns into very shady alleys. Trust me._

Slowly, panic crept in.

 _Do you have the knife?_ The knife, the knife he gave Grantaire for this very reason. 

_I left it at the studio._

Enjolras’ hands shook against the screen of his phone. 

_Can you run?_

Another long beat of silence. Just as he was beginning to suspect the worst, he received a reply. 

_No. Enjolras, if I don’t make it out of this, just know that I love you._

The man stopped pacing, stopped thinking, before denial took its toll. 

_I know. But you’re going to get out. I trust you._

There was another suspicious beat of silence. 

_I doubt it. Just say it._

Enjolras shook his head, refusing to say it. Then, he ran downstairs without a coat or his shoes and towards his car. _Where are you? I’m coming to get you._

 _An alley. Near the cafe. Don’t know the street name._

Enjolras tore out of parking and sped down the street, only after sending off his reply. 

_I’ll be there._

Five minutes after, when he hit a stoplight, he checked his phone. 

_Just turned into a dead end. Man still following. 911._

_Where?_ Enjolras typed furiously, speeding down the street. 

A reply never came. 

Enjolras drove down the side streets around the cafe for hours, even walked barefoot through the alley ways, until he realized that the only news he’d receive by now in regards of his Grantaire would be on the news. It was five in the morning when he stepped into his and Grantaire’s apartment, tossing his keys on the table and turning on the television. 

“-A very interesting development in our previous story, Inspector Javert has successfully identified the recently captured Revolution member as a young man named Grantaire. His full name has not and will not be released, but Inspector Javert has called for an immediate execution, having already interrogated the student. The hanging will take place in a private location, but will be televised at seven o’clock this morning.” 

Enjolras stared at the screen for a long moment, before putting his head in his hands. No. _No._

It had to be a nightmare, right? Grantaire, his Grantaire, couldn’t be captured. He had never even really supported the cause. He simply supported Enjolras. 

Suddenly, he was struck with a new wave of fear, of guilt. He did this. It was all his fault. And now there was nothing he could do about it. 

He waited around for the moment, knowing he probably shouldn’t have watched it. But he had to. He was tied to Grantaire. They completed each other. 

Finally, seven o’clock rolled around. Enjolras sat down on the sofa, and watched intently, tears already brimming in his eyes. 

_Interrogated._ Enjolras felt a flare of anger at the word as he caught sight of Grantaire’s black eye and bruised cheek. He walked with a limp, and cringed when Javert placed a guiding hand on his arm. 

He had his last words. Enjolras hoped he would use them.

Grantaire didn’t fight back as the Inspector looped the noose around his neck, and then nodded.

When Grantaire did speak, his voice broke. “I am proud to die for somebody. Better a martyr than a coward.” 

Enjolras felt the first tears roll down his cheek, watching as an emotionless Javert pulled the lever. Enjolras lost his breath, his lungs suddenly emptying as he watched _his_ Grantaire swing. 

The image stuck in his mind even after his hands found the remote and turned it off. 

And then, all at once, he crumpled. He gasped as sobs began to rack his body and he pulled his knees to his chest, hiding his face as tears streamed down his cheeks and onto his t-shirt. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, but it was long enough to hear the door open on its own, and then shut again. Enjolras didn’t look up, too hopeless to care. Inspector Javert could march through the door and shoot him, it didn’t matter. Nothing meant anything anymore. 

It wasn’t Javert, though, because instead of a bullet he got thin arms wrapping around him, and a head leaning against him. Marius. 

Eventually, he unfurled himself just a bit and collapsed against the younger man’s chest. Marius offered comfort but not relation, having never known love. 

Then, there was a knock at the door. 

Marius got it, telling Enjolras to stay put. As if he could do anything more. He could hardly find it in himself to lift his head off Marius’ chest. 

“Eponine,” He heard Marius say. His sobs had subsided now, reduced to quiet weeps and hiccups. “What are you doing here?” 

Eponine gave a near silent reply. “Probably the same thing you’re doing here.” 

She stepped in and sat beside him. Though she hid her face against Marius’ shoulder, he found a comfort in her. She was so clearly in love. She could understand, just a bit. 

One by one, the entirety of the Amis showed up. After Eponine came Joly, offering an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders and a bottle of Grantaire’s favorite whiskey. 

Then came Courfeyrac, with a half-empty bottle of Grantaire’s favorite vodka. He sat on the floor, the couch already at full capacity. 

Combeferre came along with two bottles of Grantaire’s favorite wine, and set them on the table with the rest of the alcohol, which was increasing in number. Grantaire had many favorite liquors. 

And lastly, Gavroche came through the door. Rather than alcohol, he brought along a small canvas painting and tossed it on the table. It was beautiful, a perfect rendition of the barricade they’d always dreamed about.

Everybody stared at it for a long moment, and Enjolras felt himself beginning to cry anew. Then, the young boy spoke up. 

“He painted me that for my birthday last year. Thought you should have it.” 

Enjolras nodded softly and wiped his eyes, thought the tears never stopped. 

Around midnight, those who weren’t already drinking started to. They passed around the bottles, careful to skip around Gavroche. The young boy didn’t even have the heart to haggle for a drink like he usually did. The empty bottles slowly accumulated around them. 

At about two in the morning, the stories began. None of them were particularly picturesque, but they were all Grantaire. 

They talked about the time he lost his temper and threw a chair at Joly, who, in turn, threw the chair back at him. They talked about the jokes he always made at meetings, and how disturbing they used to be. Now, though, they seemed like a blessing. They talked about everything from his painting to his boxing to his brilliance, and everybody contributed something. 

The stories stopped at six, when they’d talked about everything, good and bad. As Enjolras took the last swig of whiskey, Courfeyrac spoke up. 

“I suppose that’s it, then. That’s all we’ve got.” 

Eponine shook her head without looking up. “No. We were his friends.” 

“We loved him.” Gavroche added, wiping his eyes before anyone could see his tears. 

He was right. 

And that had to be enough.


End file.
